


Light, Refracted

by Alethia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Brotherhood, Dark Dean Winchester, Demons, Gen, Hunters & Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-24
Updated: 2006-07-24
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:38:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if John hadn’t been the man he was? In fact, what if he’d been just the opposite? How would the boys’ arguments change? The startling thing: they wouldn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light, Refracted

**Author's Note:**

> A dark!fic reimagining of the pilot. Freely uses some pieces of dialogue and omits others. Originally posted on LJ [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/216361.html).

_22 Years Ago_

If he hadn’t known, the preternatural calmness would have been enough, the impossibly picturesque little home, the sweetness of the evening air, the repose that dared anything to disturb the peace. Caleb sat in the car, watching the house, and marveled that no one noticed anything. Or maybe they did, instinctively, and just couldn’t put their finger on what it was that felt…wrong. 

Nothing was unusual, nothing out of place, but it was always so with her kind. They hid amongst the multitudes, appearing so outwardly innocent, concealing the inner rot.

Luck brought him here, a chance call from Missouri, something evil in this place radiating outwards, a festering wound infecting the flesh around it. Even Caleb could feel it and he didn’t have the gift of sight. It was expertly concealed, the only crack in the veneer found in its perfection: nothing this ideal could exist in the world.

But not only that. Curious deaths in the area, realigning fate, protecting this woman at the expense of others—a cop who’d given her a ticket, the nosy neighbor across the street, and others. Many others, innocent enough, a heart attack here, a car accident there, but all out of her way.

It led only to one conclusion: this woman was evil, the purest kind, and evil had to be destroyed. It didn’t matter that her blonde hair had flashed in the afternoon glow as she’d helped her little boy out of the car, it didn’t matter that she’d smiled to the neighbors, hand raised in companionable joy, as if she were one of them. 

She wasn’t one of them. She didn’t register as anything other than human, no irregular EMFs, out in sunlight, no aversion to God’s name, nothing. It only meant one thing: a witch. And how do you kill a witch?

You burn her.

***

He waited until night—the witching hour, his mind whispered, even as he scoffed at himself; a pretty poor thing to find his amusement there—accepting the risk of increased powers for the reward of fewer onlookers. It was piteously easy to pick the lock on the front door, no extraordinary security measures here, except—

Except when he stepped across the threshold, there was something, some kind of dropping feeling, air suddenly gone cold and pressing against him from all sides, nothing natural. It was but a moment and it was all he needed to know. No idea what kind of protective magic it was, but she’d be expecting him now.

And yet…everything remained silent. Caleb hefted the pack on his shoulders, holding the hose by the firing trigger, other hand ready at the igniter trigger. A somewhat ridiculous picture he made—an honest-to-God military-issue flamethrower in his hands—but there was very little room for error with his timing and nothing else would do, not with the children in the house. This definitely counted as the largest of the weapons he housed in his trunk, though ironically, not technically illegal. One day when he had the time, he must reflect on the turn to the bizarre that was his life of late.

But he lacked that time at the moment.

Caleb quickly snuck up the stairs, down the hall, wary of dark shadows, but there was nothing, hall lowly-lit, lights flickering only a little, could be nothing.

Even he didn’t believe that.

And then he found her, cooing at the child in the nursery, white swathing her frame, moon casting her in pale light, pale everywhere, and she’d be angelic—

But there went his mind again.

More importantly, she stood alone, back to the door, undefended. A small curl of fear clenched in his gut. Most monsters fought, could feel the threat. She was either extraordinarily protected or extraordinarily stupid.

“Move away from the crib,” he rasped.

She whirled, her ringlets flashing in the light, startled, stepping back instinctively. Her blue eyes went round and wide, mouth opening just the slightest bit, like shock.

“What do you want?” She moved back, step by step, even as Caleb pressed forward, sparing a glance for the child. He’d take him and the older one, give them to Pastor Jim. He could keep them protected, raise them well, forestall any evil she may have passed to them.

“Nothing you can give.” He fired, igniting it into a stream of flame that engulfed her immediately, eager. It was an easy shot; she hadn’t moved, eyes still wide and disbelieving, like it was an incomprehensible nightmare from which she’d soon awake.

There was something about that—

But then it was all fire and heat, screaming as the flames caught her white dress, snaked up her body, enveloping her in a searing embrace. He kept on, ensuring she was well and covered, failure in this not an option. She stumbled back, half-fell onto the changing table, still emitting that high-pitched agony as the fire completed its circuit. Her son woke, squalling uselessly in his crib, and from down the hall Caleb heard a high voice cry “Mommy!” only half-drowned by the gurgling screams ripped from her throat as her flesh seared, blackened, the stench of it clogging the room. It overwhelmed her, life visibly melting away, flesh liquefying in a horrific visage, horrific but necessary.

Satisfied it was enough, that the flame had well and truly taken hold of its kindling, Caleb moved to take the child—no reason to prolong _his_ agony—and that was when he saw him, a dark figure in the door, standing horrified and frozen, but only for an instant.

“No!” The man rushed in and toward her, a futile attempt to save what was soon to be dead, the fire still consuming that living pulse which no measures could now resurrect. Caleb caught a glimpse of his eyes, gleaming yellow, but he couldn’t focus on that, had to initiate his back-up plan, the one too precious to use, a gun for all manner of monster. Caleb left the child, backed toward the door as the man stared transfixed by the dance of flames.

Caleb knew the moment he had returned to himself, turning yellow eyes on him as he whirled, cold anguish splashed across his face, only half-lit by the midnight sun and outlined in the glow of her burning body.

Dimly he felt that fear again. Demons didn’t care like this; they grieved for nothing.

“You will die screaming in agony.” His voice the depth of fury as he moved forward and over, stepping to the crib and reaching down, eyes never leaving Caleb.

That was the weakness, there, and he cleaved to it, raising the gun and noting how the man’s eyes narrowed, recognition there. “I think not.” He pulled the trigger, but the other was too fast, dodging, but not completely, bullet ripping a hole in shoulder, black tendrils clawing their way out.

The man stopped, closing his eyes as he held his shoulder. “Why? She’d done nothing to you.”

“She was a monster. Or a monster’s bride,” he amended, tilting his head and sweeping his eyes over the man. Possessed. Demon? A powerful one that knew this gun.

“Hunter,” the demon growled, baring his teeth, hand leaving his shoulder—no, he wouldn’t care—but staying with the child, as a phalanx of protection, another oddity.

A demon who cared more for others than himself? Or perhaps just this child? Caleb felt the wrongness of it and again, fear gripped him. It was a clue and it meant there was a larger mystery, a course of action not confined just to random mayhem wreaked on the innocent. A _plan_.

“You keep the world safe for your monsters to murder humans. That will stop.” He needed to leave; he couldn’t stay in the company of a demon, this gun and the demon’s familial bonds his only weapons.

And there could be others coming.

“You keep it safe for humans to murder each other. Which of us is better, I wonder?” Self-awareness, a bonding instinct…nothing good could come of this. He had to end it, now.

“The one who wins.” Caleb raised the gun again, ready for another shot, but something hit him in the leg, distracting his attention and unbalancing him in the unwieldiness of the pack.

Her other boy, rushing in to save his mommy, and Caleb cursed under his breath, even as he felt the walls shake, the demon’s fury unleashed, either that or another protective gesture, diverting Caleb from this child, as well. 

It worked. The wood of the door splintered, turning into a thousand ill-aimed stakes, and Caleb ducked down the hall as they followed, jagged slices into his skin only spurring him on.

Distraction and an unanticipated adversary. Lazy recon. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. And he would uncover the plan and stop it. The demon could not be allowed to foment destruction, no matter if the instruments were human children.

As he hurried to his car, a voice followed, buoyed on the heaviness of the night air: “You are a marked man. And your world shall feel my pain.”

***

_Present Day_

Sam knew things. One of them was when someone was in his home.

He woke on a cold, clawing breath. No sound, no weird light, no nothing. But someone there. He’d bet his life on it.

He moved through the rooms soundlessly, layout easily called up, endless days of repetition meant he knew this place, knew it better than whoever was here, anyway, and the presence skated along his nerves, palpable, even if Sam couldn’t see him.

And then he did, backlit against lights from streetlamps glowing at the windowpanes. Sam didn’t hesitate—hesitation gave too many opportunities for error—and attacked, expecting an easy win.

He didn’t get an easy win.

The guy had training, as good as Sam’s own, and the way he dodged Sam’s punch, that move back, rang warning bells in his head.

But then he was on his back and catching his breath, adrenaline making him twitchy, recognition making him reel.

“Dean?!”

Dean laughed in his face, hold loosening slightly even as his weight still pressed Sam down, so very familiar. “Sammy. You’re outta practice.”

Sam kicked out, using his leverage to roll them over, pinning Dean. Hard.

Dean grunted, but he didn’t sound chagrined, just annoyed. “Or not. Get off me.”

Sam gave him a hand as he rolled up, Dean moving with the motion, easy as anything, like no time had passed.

But time had passed.

“Dean, what are you doing here?” The shock had hit him somewhere low—he’d honestly thought they were done, that he’d never see his brother again—the pain only an afterthought but stronger for it, a thousand cuts living just under his skin, never healing and with no possibility of it.

Dean thumped Sam on the shoulders, smirking in the low light. “Well, I _was_ lookin’ for a beer.”

“Dean. What are you doing here?” Sam asked again, more seriously, low.

“All right, all right. It’s about Dad. He’s missing.”

“Sam?” Jess flicked on the light, blinking muzzily at Sam and what she’d see as the guy in their living room. The brother he refused to talk about. Yeah, this would be fun.

Sam straightened and he hated that Dean’s sly look got to him, but it did. “Jess, this is my brother Dean. Dean, this is my girlfriend, Jessica.”

Dean wandered over and Sam tried not to tense. There was no way Dean would do anything to her; he knew that.

“Well, look at you. You are way outta my brother’s league.” Sam heard the sarcasm loud and clear, but Jess wouldn’t, wouldn’t get why Sam was flushing, teeth clenched.

Sam moved to Jess’ side, soothing fingertips stroking her hip, and she smiled at him, just a slight upturn of her lips, but it made him feel better. “Jess, would you excuse us, please?” Sam asked, taking Dean’s shoulder and hauling him out of the room.

“Ow. Hey! What was that for?”

“What, you just think you can show up?”

“Didn’t you hear me, Sammy? Dad’s missing. He was tracking Caleb in Jericho, California and he hasn’t been returning my calls.” Dean slipped down the stairs ahead of him, using the shadows to conceal, even though he didn’t have to, pure instinct.

It bothered him more than he expected. “So?” Sam asked, harsh.

Dean whirled on him at the base of the staircase, disbelief flashing to umbrage in a breath. “So. Dad’s on the trail of the guy that murdered Mom and you’re just gonna stand there?”

Sam shrugged. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“I dunno, _care_?”

Sam frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. Dean grunted and shook his head, finally looking away. The cant of his head spoke about disappointment…but Sam didn’t live by that any longer. “Look, I just want you to call him and make sure he’s all right. He’ll answer a call from you. Now are you gonna help me or not?”

Just a call. Like it was such a simple thing.

“I’m not,” Sam answered, measured. 

“Why not?”

Dean’s incredulity scratched at that place, the place where they’d had this argument a hundred thousand times and Dean still could not understand. “Because it’s wrong, Dean! It’s wrong to slit someone’s throat just because you have a feeling,” he hissed the last, aware of the quietude of the late night.

Dean waved that away with a lazy hand. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I already killed someone. Got the blood in the car.”

Sam stopped what he’d been gearing up to say—yet another recitation of the horrors of their lives—mouth opening a little before he remembered. This was _Dean_. And _Dad_. “You already—who?”

Dean shook his head, looking at him oddly. “Who cares? Some random, meaningless human. Now will you please quit being such a stubborn ass and make the damn call.”

He’d already killed someone, he wouldn’t take no quietly, and Jess was upstairs waiting, no doubt already crafting supportive, if probing questions. Fuck.

“Fine, but then you’re leaving. You don’t get to turn my life upside-down anymore.”

Sam stalked out to the car, wrenching open the unlocked door to find the chalice in its usual place. He settled into the deep seat and pulled it into his lap. Again he got that weird sense of how things used to be, flashes, as he swirled his finger through the blood—still warm—feeling the words fill his mouth automatically, feeling the buzz in his head.

The silent buzz, like a vibration that wasn’t, a frequency abandoned despite his hails. Nothing, no reaction. Sam kept at it—had he forgotten? But no, he knew the words were right, the feeling was right, sinking into a swirling void where normally his father’s voice slid through his mind, a blade so sharp the pain only came a few beats after, when you finally realized you were bleeding.

Dad wasn’t answering.

Sam opened his eyes to Dean’s frown, and that more than anything told Sam all he needed to know. Dean was seriously worried, worried like he never was what with the way he ran through life like he didn’t give a damn about anything or anyone except the quest.

“He’s not answering.”

Dean blew out a breath, running a hand behind his head, even as the light behind him tinged his hair golden. “We gotta go to Jericho, find out what happened.”

“Have fun.” Sam tipped the blood onto the pavement, watching as it slowly inched toward the storm drain. Come morning, it’d be gone, like it had never happened. Come morning, Dean would probably forget it ever had.

“What? You’re just gonna ignore it?”

Sam pulled himself back from the blood, from the remembered screams as he’d watched Dean collect it time and again. He blinked his eyes, annoyed that he couldn’t see Dean’s eyes with the way the streetlamp backlit him. Then again, he could pretty much guess what they’d say. “I’m done with that life, Dean.”

“He’s your father.”

“Yeah, and he probably got himself killed by a hunter and you know what? He’d deserve it.” Sam stood and moved forward, shaking out his arms—as if he could this off that easily—and not bothering to put the chalice in its place. He was quite ready to go back to Jess and forget this night ever happened, this part of his life ever happened. 

Dean grabbed his arm before he could pass, fingers pressing hurt bruises into his skin. “You don’t mean that.” His voice was low, quiet. Dangerous.

Not that Sam had ever learned to heed a warning sign. “The hell I don’t. Dad spends all his time killing people. He’d deserve it if someone finally got to him.”

Dean’s hand squeezed harder, before forcing him back, a ragged push that had Sam stumbling a couple steps. “Tracking the guy that killed Mom. What, did she deserve it, too? Deserve to be burned alive in your nursery?”

Sam shook his head, looking down. “Of course not.”

“We’re talking about finding Mom’s killer, getting revenge. This could all be _over_.” That last—Sam had never heard Dean sound like that, even contemplate that it could be over. Sam frowned.

“It’ll never be over, Dean. That’s what you don’t get. Dad’s obsession with finding Caleb…he could have gotten to him by now, but instead he pins people to ceilings. Dad doesn’t want it to be over and you’ve bought into it.”

The anger came on the heels of the cajoling, Dean obviously throwing anything out he could. The problem was, even as Sam _knew_ it, he couldn’t defend against it. Not against Dean. “No, _I’m_ putting my family first. I’m being a good son.”

It ached, even as Sam laughed, bitter and harsh. “Yes, such a _good son_. Taught to fight and kill your own kind. Think Mom would have wanted this for us?”

Dean pointed back to the apartment building, movements cutting the air. “They are not our kind. We’re not like them. We’re different.”

“Every test, Dean. I’ve had every test the medical profession can think of and I’m human. You are, too. You just buy that bullshit story Dad told you.” He shook his head sadly. He never could believe the unquestioning _faith_ Dean had in Dad. And if that wasn’t irony…

“We’re set for something greater than this and we have a duty to honor that.” Hell, he could practically hear that falling from Dad’s lips. It might very well be a quote, actually.

All it did was make Sam tired, remind him he’d been out late and drinking and he so wasn’t up for this. “I don’t want any part of your duty, Dean. And you know what? The way you’re going your destiny is nothing but a shallow, unmourned grave.” The lack of heat probably kept Dean from rearing back and punching him, but Sam didn’t have the energy to care. He started back toward the apartment, gravel biting into the soles of his feet and he’d feel it. Tomorrow.

“I can’t do this alone, Sam,” Dean called after him, voice sounding hollow, reverberating in the silently empty street.

Sam turned, pressing disbelief back at Dean. “Yes, you can.”

Dean shifted his eyes away, rocking a little. “Yeah, well, I don’t want to.”

Sam shook his head. “That’s not my problem.” He turned back, but Dean wouldn’t let it go.

“If we found him, Caleb? Dad wouldn’t have an excuse anymore.”

Sam looked over his shoulder, but Dean had gone blank, sure sign he was manipulating Sam…but it was enticing. Caleb had killed her, and she didn’t deserve it, but every argument they’d ever had ended with a reminder that their mother’s killer was still loose. It was an excuse and to have it be gone like _that_ —

“I have to be back by Monday morning.”

Dean’s face relaxed, happy in winning this round, before he quirked an eyebrow. “Why?”

Sam lifted his chin, daring Dean to comment. He would anyway, but Sam wanted his protest noted before it happened. It didn’t mean anything…but it made him feel better. “I have a law school interview.”

“Law school? You’re joking, right?”

Sam squared his shoulders. “No. It’s my whole future on a plate and I won’t let him take that from me.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but acquiesced, splaying his hands deferentially. “Fine. Monday morning.”

***

“What’s in Jericho, anyway?” He’d been silent most of the ride, wondering at what it felt like to sit next to Dean again, to be doing this…again. It tasted sour in his mouth but if he could finish something—and it was only a couple days—he might find some peace. Eventually.

Dean glanced at him, a quick flick of his eyes, measuring Sam’s mood, before turning back to the road, all spread out and empty, no one about as the landscape lightened, reaching for dawn. “A huge waste of good oxygen…and one woman in white.”

Sam ignored the jab. “Caleb was hunting her.”

“Ridding the world of evil, doing good, making it safe for humans to slaughter each other and us, blah blah blah. You know the drill.”

Dean practically dangled the hook in front of his face…and Sam kept on biting. Just like Dean knew he would. “Yeah, killing the monsters than hunt innocent humans. Saving lives. Horrible.”

“You’re _defending_ the man that walked into your nursery and murdered Mom?”

“I’m saying, Mr. I-already-have-the-blood, that you hardly have the moral high ground.”

Dean shook his head, hands gripping the wheel. “They’re monsters, hunters worst of all.”

“And you’re just like them.” He offered it quietly, as if Dean would listen this time, but it beat yelling. His throat hurt anyway.

“So that’s why you ran away? ‘Cause you can’t tell the difference between us and them?”

Sam shook his head and stared at Dean, not quite believing what he was saying, but it wasn’t like Dean could hide behind the darkness anymore and Sam could see clearly the seriousness there. “There is no difference. And I was just going to college. It’s Dad who insisted I was betraying the family by doing it.”

Dean tsked at him, like Sam was an unruly child, and it made Sam squirm, want to yell about just who was being childish and accepting without question whatever Daddy told him. “You fell into the trappings of this human life. College, law school, marry your girl, white picket fence.”

Sam closed his eyes, sunk into that image, just a little taste of normalcy. He’d worked hard for it; he’d _earned_ it, dammit. “Why not?”

“And then one day some stranger will walk into your home and shatter all that. And you’ll think to yourself, ‘I could have stopped this.’”

He opened his eyes, looking back at his brother once again, letting the image fade away like the morning mist receding. “By never having it?”

Dean gestured to the far-off houses, tucked away from the roads, lights starting to blink on, a cheery picture of warmth and simplicity Sam had never had. “By making them so busy with each other that they don’t notice us.”

Sam watched the odd house, getting more numerous as they moved closer to a town, little bastions of tranquility they seemed. It wasn’t so much that Sam thought he could live in a dream like that—Dad and Dean seemed to do everything in their power to make it impossible—but it’d be nice to have the _choice_.

Dean never could understand that.

Sam cleared his throat, attention focused out there and not…in here. “That’s a great strategy. Really working out well.”

Dean’s voice floated to him, accusing. “Yeah, at least we’re not hiding away, like none of it exists.”

Sam rubbed a finger at the glass of the window, smudging it with the oil of his skin. “If only I could.”

***

The rickety little gas station looked like it’d blow over with a good huff and puff, but thankfully Dean didn’t seem in the mood for making merry. Which, really, was just another indication of how worried he was. Sam tried to feel remorse about being glad Dean was too worried to engage in playing with the ‘sad saps that were humans’…but he couldn’t. And he didn’t know how to feel about that.

Dean came back out of the little convenience store, waving Cheetos and Mountain Dew at him like it was the breakfast of champions. Sam’s stomach felt sick just looking at them and he shook his head.

Dean rolled his eyes, but propped himself against the car and ripped into the bag anyway. “Only one motel in town. I figure, we stop by, have a chat with the manager. Caleb had to have stayed there.”

“Fine, but let me take the lead, would you?”

Something orange came flying at his face and Sam dropped back instinctively, the Cheeto landing harmless on the dash behind him. 

Dean just snickered. “Nice reflexes. And fine. We’ll see if you can handle it.”

He moved around the car, getting in and getting ready to drive off. But—

“Aren’t you gonna pay for that?” Sam gestured back to the gas pump, blinking at Dean.

Who smiled slow, delighted, early morning sun glinting off his teeth. “Already taken care of, Sammy. Now get your feet in before I start this car and they get chopped off.”

Sam complied, automatic, mind’s eye looking back into the store, the image of an old man sprawled out behind the counter, neck broken, eyes wide in fright swirling behind eyelids he hadn’t even realized he’d closed.

He gritted his teeth.

***

The door actually chimed when they walked in and Sam had to shake off the sense of foreboding. Everything was fine.

“Can I help you boys?” The manager had looked up from a classic car magazine and yeah, probably didn’t get a lot of business in such a random place. He looked weathered as the motel, like the place had infected him with its worn-down edges, all grey hair and sunken eyes and a truly hideous shirt.

Sam smiled his choir boy smile and went to work. “I hope so. We’re looking for an older gentleman. He might have come this way recently. Goes by the name of Caleb?”

The man thought, scratched at his head. “Can’t say anyone by that name has stayed here recently.”

Shit. “Well, he might have used a different name. Could we possibly take a look at your log book, just to check?”

Definite wariness filled the manager’s face. Shit. “Now I don’t think I can do that. Privacy concerns, you know?”

Sam smiled, nodding, trying to come up with something that would convince him that it was terribly urgent they look—

Dean’s hands thumped him hard on the shoulders, physically pushing him out of the way, moving into the space he vacated and leaning against the counter like he had not a care in the world.

“Hi. We really need to look at that book.”

The manager frowned, just now getting that they would be insistent about it. “Well I really can’t help you.”

“Now that’s a shame.” Instantly Dean slid over the counter, dropping down next to the manager, hand already on his throat and propelling him back against the far wall. Sam heard his grunt of pain as Dean pressed him against something, a ledge maybe, moving in close and growling at him.

“Let me make myself clear: we are going to look at that book or you will die a slow, agonizing death. Do you understand?” He punctuated the last with another rough push against his throat and the man choked and struggled to get some air into his abused lungs, nodding as much as he could.

“Sam?” Dean asked, not turning around, and oh. Yeah.

He hurried around, flipping through the book he found just under the counter, dragging his finger down until he found one that had to be it.

“There’s a Burt Afranian that checked in last week, paid for the whole month.”

Dean grunted, still holding the manager. “Boy’s got a sense of humor, I see. Get the key.”

Sam jingled the key to room 10, looking at Dean and glancing to the man expectantly.

Dean’s shoulders flexed under his jacket and Sam was grabbing his arm before the thought even occurred, pulling back as Dean tried to increase the pressure, the man sagging under Dean’s hands as his body shook, the fight leaving him even with Sam taking away some of the pressure. 

“Let him go,” Sam growled, gripping Dean’s arms and grunting into his ear.

Dean finally turned to look…and whatever he saw in Sam’s eyes had him pulling back, the manager dropping to the ground, unconscious, most likely with some brain damage from the prolonged lack of oxygen.

“What the hell was that?” Dean asked, glaring down at him when Sam dropped to check his pulse.

“You can’t just go around killing people,” he hissed. The man’s pulse beat slowly under his skin, sluggish, but it was there.

“No security cameras, no witnesses. And this way he can’t give our descriptions to the cops.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t crush his windpipe,” Sam muttered, straightening.

“No, that’s what I was trying to do until you went all protector of the downtrodden on me. What’s next, rescuing kittens from trees?”

“Not a bad idea. Might be a way to make up for some seriously bad karma.”

Dean grabbed at his hoodie and pushed him forward, out and around the counter, back out to the motel grounds.

“Let’s make this quick, huh Sammy? Since grandpa in there will be waking up sometime soon.” 

It was a valid point and Sam unlocked the door quickly, bursting into a room that was—

Empty. Not that he’d really expected Caleb to be here. Hoped, maybe.

There was stuff everywhere, though, newspaper articles taped to the walls, half-eaten food by the bed. Dean walked over and sniffed at it, wrinkling his nose. “Been gone at least a couple days. Lookie here, salt, cat’s eye shells. He was trying to protect himself.” Dean grinned, immensely pleased. “Not that it could have stopped _us_.”

Sam nodded, looking over the walls, stories on devils and demons, a bunch of stories about missing men, a picture of a woman in white. “He figured it out,” Sam commented, moving that story to look at another one, this one about a local suicide. “Constance Welch.”

Dean came up behind him, looking over Sam’s shoulder, the heat of him making Sam twitchy. He didn’t like people at his back…even if it was Dean. “He’s good, I’ll give him that. He’d be dead by now if he weren’t. What’s her story?” he asked, nodding to the picture. “She’s hot.”

Sam shook his head, just once. “And dead. Killed herself on Centennial Highway.”

“Ah, our woman in white. And not just herself, Sammy. She murdered her kids. And you protest us killing them when they’ll happily off each other. Does it say where she did it?”

“Justifying murder with other people’s murders? That’s a new one. And yeah, she jumped off the nearby Sylvania Bridge.”

Dean clapped his hands together, rubbing in anticipation. “Excellent. Let’s go meet Constance.”

“We should wait until night. Somewhere else so we don’t get nabbed when the cops show up,” Sam said dryly, turning around to face Dean

Who rolled his eyes. “Obviously. I have done this before. Way more than you, in fact.”

Sam gestured to the door, imperious. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

Dean shot him a confused glance at that, but didn’t comment, walking out after quickly checking the lot for cops. Hours until sunset and Dean in a mood. Fun times.

***

It turned out Dean’s grand plan had them parking in some secluded spot—scraggly trees obscuring them from the road, the sound of birds grating at Sam’s already-frayed nerves—and grabbing a nap. Not the most original of plans, but it kept them from talking. Or arguing. Any more. 

After that Dean drove them out to the bridge, slow in deference to the night’s darkness, even leaving the headlights on once they got there. He busied himself, making a circle in chalk, symbols Sam hadn’t seen, mumbling under his breath as he went, fog swirling out of his mouth on each syllable.

“What’s that?”

Dean looked up, light hitting his eyes and making them reflect almost yellow. He grinned, teeth flashing, proud of himself. “This? Little trick Dad taught me. It’ll call up anything less than the fallen and make them stay until you release them.”

Sam scuffed at the bridge with his boot, disturbing the dust there. “Gee, he didn’t include the fallen. How magnanimous.”

Dean straightened and snorted, shaking his head like Sam was some kind of naïve little child. “You go that high up, you get into politics. This is meant for the soldiers on the front lines, so to speak.”

Sam spread his hands, looking at the circle obviously. “So? I don’t see anything.”

“Give her a minute, will you?” He’d barely finished when Constance was suddenly _there_ , flicking fathomless dark eyes over them, fully aware. From what Sam had read women in white lived in their world of agony, only seeing their own pain…but she seemed focused on them. Weird.

“Constance,” Dean greeted, nodding, almost cordial.

She moved back carefully, out of the circle, Sam noted, eventually settling against one of the metal supports. When her voice came it flickered, like it was a transmission, but Sam could still hear the emotion in it: “You are the scions.”

“Very good. So you spoke to dear old Dad.” Dean had moved forward, matched her step for step, watching her intently.

She nodded, eyes fixed on Dean’s, skin completely white in the light from the car. “He called me here. Pulling me away from one,” she added, vehement and suddenly angry, a blazing hunger there, eager to feast on revenge, revenge she’d never get, Sam knew.

Dean cocked his head, voice almost gentle, weird juxtaposition to her fire. “And what did he say?”

She waited a beat, defiant, but relented, probably coming to the conclusion that giving Dean what he wanted would get her what she wanted: out of here. “He asked about a man, a hunter.”

“What about the man?” Sam asked, arms folded. Her eyes darted to him and he forced himself not to fall into that bottomless well of pain, fall under her sway. What had Dean said? He had to release her?

She shook her head, dark ringlets bouncing in the night air, glossy in the cast-off light from the Impala. “I don’t know. I didn’t know anything about him.”

“You didn’t know he was hunting you?” Sam clarified, frowning.

“I knew he was making the spirits restless but I didn’t know why,” she shot back, tight and frigid as she looked.

Dean shifted to grab her attention, smoothly continuing on. Sam couldn’t see his face, but from the sound of his voice he’d guess Dean had the charming act fully in place. Not that he’d need to; the ghost was nominally under his control. “What did our father say when you told him that?”

She frowned, like it was a confusing memory, enough of an enigma to pull her out of the bitchy routine and into genuine concern. “He just smiled and released me.”

“Smiled?” Dean stepped into her space, running the back of a finger down her pale cheek, porcelain and fragile-looking, even if she wasn’t, even if nothing could hurt her now. Nothing but her own memories, Sam amended.

He could relate.

She nodded and even from where he stood Sam could see her shaking, just a little, with the effort of holding herself back. She tempted men now, all she did, and here Dean was, defying that, pursuing, in all the ways her cheating husband would have.

No wonder she looked like she’d happily rip out his throat.

“Was he happy?” The finger moved down her neck, fluttering across where her pulse would be and moving lower, tracing a collarbone, Dean’s skin dark against her flesh and dress.

Sam moved to angle them, so he could see Dean’s expression, see what he thought he was doing.

“No,” she growled, baring her teeth, feral. Dean grinned, his finger dipping lower, moving down, egregious enough that it finally spurred her into action, grabbing Dean’s wrist with a vicious twist that only left him smiling in delight.

“Now, Constance, don’t be like that,” he said, wheedling, breaking her hold with a little more effort than a human would require and using his hand to press her back. Supernatural strength and all meant she could hurt him, she was stronger, but he had to release her…and they were their father’s children. 

“You are just like all the others, thinking you can run around, take what you want,” she sneered, eyes dropping and then returning to Dean’s face, furious and dire.

Dean didn’t even flinch. “Sweetheart, I’m _much_ worse than they are,” he shot back sweetly, still fully in her space, the set of his shoulders telling Sam he felt like playing. Great. “And I can.”

Sam grunted and turned, biting out a hasty “I’ll be in the car” before turning away from the sight. 

He hated when Dean did this, felt like goading the monsters they ran into, poked at their tender spots. Sam made his way back to the passenger side and he caught a glimpse of Dean’s hand on her hip when he turned to actually get in. He resolutely looked away again, settling down and watching the opposite side of the bridge, the way the inky blackness of the night swallowed the light from the car once it got to a certain point. Sam could probably write an equation that would solve for the light’s range and if it were only so easy to solve the rest, he could be content.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t. 

And this was so—wrong. He and Dean…they scared people. Things. Enough that even monsters wouldn’t touch them past a point. Humans could feel it, some kind of awareness of the threat making them jumpy. It’d taken Sam a long time to get Jess to calm down enough to trust his touch. Dean…reveled in the fact that people didn’t.

With their kind—no, with the supernatural—it was worse. It was the one way Sam had reason to believe Dad and his insistence that they were different. But Dad would never answer when Sam asked about it, just another frustration in this life.

A quick glance showed Dean had pulled back, was stroking her hair in a mockery of affection, and he’d done that to Jess a hundred times. It made something snap in Sam, made him shove open his door and call out to him.

“Are you done yet?”

Sam caught Dean’s murmur, even as he trailed fingers down between Constance’s breasts. “I don’t think so, Constance. Why don’t you go find someone else to take you home.” Her face became enraged as he turned away from her. Dean scuffed up the circle, tossed her a smirk, and then swaggered back toward Sam; Constance blinked out on a deafening roar.

“Did you really need to do that?” Sam asked when Dean got closer. His clothes were rumpled; she seemed the type to give as good as Dean.

“ _Oh_ , yeah. There are men out there cheating, Sam, _cheating_ on their trusting wives and girlfriends. Don’t you think they need to be punished?” He sounded so offended on their behalf…

“No. And neither do you.”

Dean smirked and nodded obligingly, hand resting on the door. “Well, that’s true. But she’s all riled up now and out on the hunt. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky and Caleb will come back to finish the job.” He got into the driver’s side, face relaxed into a small smile.

“Yeah, that’ll happen,” Sam growled.

Dean just shrugged. “I put a tracking spell on her, anyway. Can’t hurt.”

Sam grunted, hitting the heel of his hand against the dash, not hard but enough to feel the pressure moments later. “So basically this was a total waste of our time.”

“I kinda thought it was a satisfying use of my time.” Dean grinned at him and what? He expected camaraderie?

“Feeling up Casper, you freak?”

Dean grinned and started the engine, visibly pleased at the purr it made. “Just doin’ my job. Pissed her off well enough that she’s gonna be all about offing those bastards dumb enough to think picking up a hot chick on the side of the road’s a good idea. I’m just making the best of it. We are allowed to have fun.”

“I think our definitions of fun are a little different.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re boring.”

Sam rolled his eyes, ignoring the jab by rote. “And why are you starting the car, anyway? The trail’s cold. Dad’s not here and neither is Caleb.”

Dean settled himself back into his seat, lazy enough that he had to be plotting, tense enough that the effort showed. “Oh, you don’t wanna make your interview thing? That’s cool. I heard about this killer titty bar four towns south. We could make it by morning.”

Sam pursed his lips, just looking at Dean. Dean cracked a grin, shrugging. “Had to try. Okay, Stanford it is.”

***

Something was wrong. Sam knew it even before they hit his street. These areas near campus should be hopping; there should be students stumbling around everywhere, laughing with friends, playing Frisbee, acting like the morons they were. Instead the streets were quiet, deserted, and it made Sam’s spine tingle.

He only understood why once Dean had made the turn onto his, the lights from the fire trucks, ambulances, cop cars screaming at him that this had to do with him, accusing.

Sam stumbled out of the car before Dean even stopped, pushing through the gathered crowds. Someone grabbed him by the arm and Sam barely even felt it, only knew that his motion had stopped, that enough to get him to look over. Dan, the guy next door, was saying things, but Sam couldn’t even hear it, could barely make out how he mouthed “sorry” and “Jess” and “fire” with the lights from the rescue cars making his eyes burn.

He shook Mark off, pushing off again, and this time people parted for him. The cops weren’t so accommodating but he ducked past them, ran up the stairs, crashing into his apartment without care, startling the firemen that remained.

One might have patted him on the arm as he moved past Sam, but his ears were ringing and all he could focus on was the black of the body bag, being wheeled out by the paramedics. He ghosted a hand over it…and then the buzz started in his head, making him slam shut his eyes, even as a scene started, a scene he didn’t want to see. Ever.

Someone picking his lock, hands old and sure, stepping past the threshold easily, like he belonged. He scanned the apartment, sifting quietly through doors, tucking a picture of Sam into his pack.

The scene moved to Jess, waiting in their room, reading in her nightgown to the light of some candles—fluorescents gave her headaches, especially at night—looking up at some noise, setting her book to the side and standing to investigate.

The man walked in as Jess moved to go out, striking out, quick and sure, a blow that had Jess stumbling back into her nightstand, hitting her head and falling unconscious.

The man’s face was visible now—Sam had never seen him—and he frowned down at Jess before rummaging through their things, not finding anything until he reached Sam’s drawers, collecting his knives, the one book he’d hidden under the dresser.

Jess stayed silent and still, a gash on her head that would probably have needed stitches if a candle hadn’t kept on smoldering under her nightstand. Three had gone out in the fall; one hadn’t. The man didn’t notice as he moved out and to another room, the vision following him there, even if all Sam wanted was to stay back with Jess, to yell and yell until she’d wake up, move away.

But he wasn’t the one in control. This man was, this old man who instinctively felt like Caleb, a kind of knowing beyond knowing that Sam couldn’t describe but that had never failed him.

He searched through the kitchen, finally, and moved to leave, only glancing back at the bedroom door once…but not going back to check.

The door clicked behind him and Sam was back with Jess, and oh, how he wished he wasn’t. The candle had caught, the tiniest flame sparking on Jess’ filmy nightgown, spreading slowly, but spreading all the same. Sam could do nothing but watch as it did, snaking its way up her body, burning away the nightgown to get at flesh and then burning that, choking black smoke filling the room and only then did Sam register the yells from the hall, people finally realizing it wasn’t some college prank.

But no one came, not before her golden hair had been lit up like so many birthday candles, before fire had come to ring her face. He saw it when her chest stopped moving, smoke doing the work the fire would take ages to finish. In something that tasted like bitter ashes in his mouth, it was only then that someone kicked in the door, the crash loud. But it was too late; she was gone, even as flames still danced over her, a parody of what she always was, golden and fiery, now turned literal in the most horrendous way.

The scene faded, Sam becoming aware of someone’s hand on his back. Dean. It was Dean’s hand and Dean’s voice talking to…someone…and Jess was dead.

Jess. Was. Dead.

What was it Dean had said? ‘I could have stopped this?’

The rush of emotion finally came, a rage he’d never known dropping him to his knees, a cry torn from his lips. Loud silence rang after that, and Sam was aware of shock, not that he cared. Jess was dead and Caleb had killed her—indirectly or not—and this wasn’t his life. This wasn’t supposed to happen. 

Dean led him out, down stairs and to his car, fending off people Sam would probably recognize if he could take anything in, if he weren’t completely numb to the world, the simmering anger the only thing that kept him going.

“Sam. Sammy,” Dean said in his ear, the patient tone of voice tugging at his attention. 

Sam looked at him, seeing no gloating, no pleasure at being right. “Jess is dead,” he said rather uselessly, but Dean just nodded, squeezing his shoulder.

“I know, bro.”

“Caleb killed her.”

Dean shook his head, once, eyes flashing confusion at him, lit up by all the lights still flashing. But even they were dying, the immediate threat now gone, ambulance already off, fire trucks making ready to follow. “Huh?”

“I saw it. When I walked in.”

“Caleb was here?” Dean seemed to take that in and once he processed it, he was off like a shot, kicking at some nearby gravel. “Dammit! I knew this was gonna happen. What have I been saying? He’s _evil_ , Sam. They all are. His death would make the world a better place.” The anger of it was…enticing. Sam knew he was in shock, probably acting irrationally, but the little voices telling him so couldn’t drown out the wrenching in his chest that alternately made him want to heave or kill things.

He shook his head, unable to grasp what it meant, Caleb here. It meant that he was hunting them, even as Dad hunted him. They’d moved around, kept mobile when they were young, but Sam had done away with all that by coming to college. He’d leased an apartment. In his own name.

And now Jess was dead.

Sam blinked at the hand on his shoulder, the reminder that oh, yeah, Dean was here and Sam lost himself in his thoughts there.

“What do you want to do?” Dean asked.

Do? What did you do when all your dreams went up in a puff of smoke?

Sam gritted his teeth and stalked to the trunk, throwing it open and staring at the box of weapons Dean kept there. He felt Dean move to his shoulder, watching him warily. Sam pulled out the map he’d taken from Caleb’s motel room, the little x somewhere in Colorado way more enticing now than it had been then.

“We’ve got work to do.”

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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